


All Your Favorite Tunes

by captain_tots



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 18:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2078022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_tots/pseuds/captain_tots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eve Moneypenny agrees to take a key witness in the London attack into protective custody. She's not sure if volunteering was her best idea yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Your Favorite Tunes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! All my love to Sinea, Alexa, and Anja for always believing in me, no matter what.

_One._

 

The first time Eve sees the woman, she appears small. This is an illusion, brought on by the florescent hospital lights and the great swath of bandages around the woman's head. Eve knows the woman is just a bit taller than herself—she knows this because she's read the woman's files over and over again, starting from the time she arrived, rushed from a tiny island off the coast of China, with a pit stop in Hong Kong for emergency surgery. Eve felt a certain degree of responsibility for the woman's predicament, although there was nothing she could have done to prevent it. She remembers herself as a wasp buzz in Bond's ear,

_“She's pretty... if you like that sort of thing.”_

It was just a joke at the time, but seeing her here now, both arms stuck with IV needles, all of her hair shaved off to better access the injury... Eve felt a sick sense of guilt. She had too much compassion to be a field agent, that's what M—the first M—had told her, and now she understood.

The woman was called “Sévérine.” That's what her file said, anyway. No last name. No known aliases. She had a short record with a few intelligence agencies; nothing from the Americans, but the Russians were willing to divulge that she was a suspected player in a high stakes money laundering ring that held assets for various gangs and drug trafficking syndicates, with connections to cyber-terrorism.

She's got peripheral vein scarring on her left arm, more commonly called track marks, a sign of intravenous injection. Though, her system was clean when she landed in Hong Kong. They were old. The tattoo on her wrist was linked with sex trafficking. She was “owned,” or had been at one point in time. That explained the track marks. Pimps pumped women full of narcotics to keep them from running away; they used heroin as a chemical leash.

The hospital room is guarded by so many police officers, it must look as though a member of the Royal Family is ill. Just barely a week ago, Eve stood in front of Sévérine's bed while M—the first M, Mansfield—stood behind her, her back stiff, face tight.

“We cannot lose this woman, do you understand?” M had told the doctors. “Her life is of extreme importance to national security.”

The doctors seemed confused—they weren't at all aware of who this woman was, why her room needed a 24/7 police guard, or how she had managed to find herself suffering from a traumatic head injury, caused by a close encounter with an antique bullet that just barely missed her brain.

In the present, just barely a week later, Mansfield is replaced by Mallory, and after the funeral, Eve accompanies him to Sévérine's hospital bed. By now, the doctors and nurses must have made the connection between this strange, sleeping woman and the terrorist attack on London, but they're wise enough to not say anything about it. When Eve and M enter the room, they scatter out into the hallway.

“How long is she going to sleep?” Eve asks M.

“Until we decide to bring her out of the coma,” he replies. Sévérine's slumber has been medically induced, first to protect her from the stress and trauma of the operations, and now because letting her sleep until Raoul Silva was disposed of was simply convenient. M shakes his head in frustration. “Her being alive... it's a blessing and a curse. If she agrees to talk, then we can use her to piece Silva's operation together... names, dates, locations. But, by bringing her here, she's our responsibility now. No one can know who she is. And Bond cannot know that she is alive. Absolutely not. Is that understood?”

“Yes sir. Of course,” Eve answers. She knows that Bond has some  _issues_ surrounding women—strong women, lost women, broken women. It's not an issue she wishes to provoke. 

“She's going to need 24/7 surveillance after we bring her back. Constant monitoring.”

“Yes sir. How do you intend to monitor her?” Eve asks, feeling a slight bit of apprehension. She feels too much sympathy for the woman to passively agree if M wants to lock her up in a cell and prod her with questions. 

M sighs for the second time.

“Quite honestly, I don't know.”

“Well, um, sir... I apologize if you consider this to be too forward, but I would volunteer myself to serve as her escort.” Eve is not entirely sure what has come over her. She does have a particularly close relationship with the new M, moreso than most agents or members of MI6. However, to directly ask him for an assignment, one that he had not even alluded to... it's unheard of, really.

M doesn't seemed to be insulted, but rather, curious. He turns to face Eve and says,

“And why would you volunteer yourself?” His tone isn't sarcastic or condescending. He's sincere.

“I feel a certain degree of responsibility for her, sir,” Eve answers.

She sees just the faintest hint of a smile pass over M's face.

“Well,” he says. “I suppose this is why we opted to pull you out of the field, isn't it?”

“Shooting Bond couldn't have helped,” she replies, a little humor in her voice.

“We'll wake her up in 48 hours,” M tells her. “I'll consider your proposal.”

Eve feels a lightness come over her. M wasn't insulted, thank heavens. And just maybe, she'll get what she asked for.

“You are dismissed, Agent Moneypenny. I will be in contact with you shortly.”

“Yes, sir,” she responds, turning to exit the hospital room.

There's a porcelain bulldog sitting in the backseat of her car, and she needs to find a box for it.  
  


* * *

 

It's the first meeting of the three of them. Well, with all three of them conscious. They've been in this room everyday since she was brought here, but it's only now that she can speak.

The doctor who tapered off her medication says she woke up disoriented, speaking first in Cantonese, then English. She asked if Raoul knew where she was. The doctors told her that he did not, and she began to cry. Whether she was relieved or saddened by the news was anyone's guess. She hadn't said much of anything since then. They gave her water, and she thanked them, and that was it. The doctors and nurses had been instructed to not ask her any questions. That was MI6's job.

It was decided that Eve would be the one to do the talking. She seemed less threatening than M—young, female, empathetic. She's holding a video camera and a tripod when she walks into the room, M right behind her. Sévérine is sitting rigid and upright, her eyes wide open. She doesn't speak a word though, and Eve wonders if this isn't the first time she's woken up like this—alone in a foreign land, injured and confused.

M sets up the camera while Eve pulls a chair close to Sévérine's bedside. M gives her a silent nod when the camera begins rolling.

“I am Agent Eve Moneypenny of M16. The day is November 3, 2012. I am at Saint Mary's Hospital in London. I am joined by MI6 commander, M. I am interviewing a known associate of terrorist, Raoul Silva.” Eve spits out her entire introduction in one breath. She can't see it, but Sévérine twitches when she says the name, “Raoul Silva.”

Eve turns away from the camera, and faces Sévérine. She tries to dig up some old information about body language that was instilled in her during some long-ago class. Knees facing the other person. Hands relaxed at your sides. Lean back. Don't threaten.

“Sévérine, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Sévérine, can you recall how you became injured?”

“I do not recall,” she says. Her voice is soft and low, with a rough and scratchy tone. She sounds worn out, a seductress no more. She looks Eve in the eyes, and blinks a few times. She recognizes her, from the casino.

“Is Raoul Silva dead?” Sévérine asks.

“I want to just ask you a few more questions first...” Eve says, slightly unsettled. She doesn't know how Sévérine will react to the news—Bond had said that the woman was begging for Silva's death, but her feelings on the reality could be different.

“Please, I need to know. Please.” Her words are desperate, and she leans forward in bed far enough to stress the IV tubes in her arms.

“Yes,” M says. “Yes, he's dead.”

Sévérine begins to cry, in a soft and dignified sort of manner. Sitting straight up in her hospital bed, with her head covered in bandages and no hair to speak of, these slow tears running down her face, she looks as sad as anyone Eve has ever seen.

“Do you want to know how you were injured, Sévérine?” Eve asks, trying to make her voice as calm and slow as possible. Sévérine shakes her head “yes” in a series of little nods, still crying.

“You were shot by Mr. Silva. He aimed for your head, and just missed it enough to save your life. Do you remember him doing this?”

She shakes her head no.

“Can you tell me what the last thing you remember before waking up here is?”

Sévérine takes a deep breath.

“I remember a man named James.” She pauses, and looks to Eve to see her reaction. Eve remains stone faced. “Did Raoul kill James?” Sévérine asks.

Eve does as she was told to do, and nods yes.

Sévérine lets a few more stoic tears leak out of her eyes, but Eve understands that this woman has seen so much suffering, that these past few moments have meant almost nothing to her.

“Mr. Silva and his associates launched an attack on the city of London. James was killed in the line of duty during the attack.” The lie makes Eve's throat burn.

“James was a kind man,” Sévérine says.

“He was. And you can help us continue his work, Sévérine. If you tell us everything you know about Raoul Silva's operations, you will not be charged or held responsible for any crimes you may have committed while you were an associate of Mr. Silva.”

“Raoul had quite a few _operations._ It would take me years to explain all of them.”

“We can start tomorrow then. MI6 has years to listen.” Eve gives the other woman a tense smile.

“Ms. Sévérine,” M says to her, “There is no medically necessary reason to keep you hospitalized in a clinical facility anymore. Given the traumatic events which you have experienced, MI6 is prepared to offer you two options: you can be transferred to a psychiatric facility, or you can be released into the custody of Agent Moneypenny.”

Eve holds her breath for a moment. She's honestly not sure which outcome she would prefer. Certainly, she was the one who asked for Sévérine to be placed with her in the first place... but seeing the woman here now made her realize what a task she had volunteered herself for.

“I would ask to be released into the custody of Agent Moneypenny,” Sévérine says, without a hint of emotion betrayed in her voice. Eve feels her pulse begin to quicken.

“Excellent. Your medical team will begin preparing you for your discharge, which will take place tomorrow afternoon,” M tells her. He makes brief eye contact with Eve, and she knows that she'll be spending the rest of the night in his office, hearing lists and lists of instructions.  
  


* * *

Most agents in MI6 are orphans—or at least the ones who get to do anything particularly fun, exciting, or dangerous are. It's too difficult to explain to a pair of doting parents why you have to travel to Istanbul for three months, why you can't call them for weeks on end, why there's a strange woman staying in your house with connections to shady money laundering schemes and cyber-terrorism... Not that Eve was the traditional sort of orphan, like Bond.

Eve had peered through his file while she was helping Mallory move into the “M” office. Mansfield had left Bond's folder in her top drawer, under someone else named “Tiago Rodriguez.” Eve had sifted through the biographical information before Mallory walked in, and she had to awkwardly slam the folder back inside the desk.

Her own story was a bit less classical—there were no ancestral mansions involved, at least. Her parents were immigrants who had worked for years to build up the kind of life that they wanted before they brought a child into the world. By the time Eve was working through her first year of college, her parents were almost 70, and soon fell ill, prematurely aged by the stress of building a life in a new country. Her extended family lived in Trinidad, and spoke limited English. At her college graduation, there was no one standing in the audience for Eve. A week later, she was contacted by an MI6 recruiter.

Eve wondered what this woman's childhood had been like.

If she had known her parents.

How she met Raoul Silva in the first place.  
  


* * *

Sévérine arrives promptly, delivered by a full police escort, right on the dot at noon. She's in all black—knee length dress, flat shoes, and a cloche hat snug over her head to disguise the bandages. Standing directly in front of Eve, she doesn't appear small anymore. She's tall and willowy, and in her all black ensemble, she reminds Eve of a shadow.

Eve extends her hand out to greet the other woman.

“Miss Sévérine, it's a pleasure to have you here.”

Sévérine shakes her hand, with her lips pursed, not saying a word.

Eve searches her eyes and sees nothing. No sadness or pain, no trepidation. Sévérine's face is devoid of any sort of emotion.

“Please, come in.” Eve stresses her voice to sound as hospitable as possible. Sévérine slowly steps into the house, followed by a team of MI6 grunts, holding suitcases. “Can I get you something to drink?” Eve asks, the simplest of hostess questions.

“To be entirely honest, Agent Moneypenny, I would prefer to just go to sleep.”

Eve nods. She's grateful, truthfully.

“Here, let me show you to your room,” Eve says.

Sévérine follows behind her, and Eve wonders just what sort of mess she's created for herself.

 


End file.
